The Mark of Infamy

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My father said he would kill me if I ever turned homo.  I was 14 years old.  I wonder how much this has affected my sexual development.

That evening I swallowed half a bottle of aspirin.  I knew they were painkillers.  I was not in pain.  I think I was foreseeing the pain that was to come.

I didn’t know much at age 14.  I knew practically nothing of personal identity and even less about sexual orientation.  I was simply me.  But I learned something important that day:  A homo doesn’t deserve to live.

I didn’t think I was a homo.  I hardly knew what the word meant.  In my teenage mind, the word homo meant “like a girl.”  I was a boy.  So to be “like a girl” was abominable.

I could have been a thief, a liar, or even a murderer, and my father would have forgiven me.  But if I was gay, I deserved to die — to be killed by my own father.

To be bisexual was even worse.  That was the ultimate disgrace, the most perverted thing on the face of this earth.

I was bisexual.

The mark of infamy was on me.  I didn’t deserve to live and I didn’t deserve to be happy.   And if I was to ever succumb to my sexual desires, it would be the end of me.

I don’t think I ever got over it.  Even now, decades later.  My father is dead.  I am free but I am not.  He left something in me.  The mark of infamy.  I wish I could pluck it out.

How can I be bisexual and proud?

I AM proud of myself.  But I am not proud of myself in regards to THEM — my family.  Bisexuality is not something to be proud of according to Christianity.

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Derealization

Derealization

God, I feel so unsure.  It’s like I can’t take control of my life.  Maybe I don’t trust myself.  That’s it, I don’t trust myself!  I don’t trust my feelings.  I don’t trust my desires and my urges.  I feel that they were put there to mislead me.

My own feelings want to mislead me.  That’s horrible!  How about my mind?  I don’t even know what to think.  I want to drink.  Get drunk.  Pass out.  And die, yeah!

This afternoon I took a nap.  I fell asleep.  I dreamed that I was walking inside a warehouse.  Then I must have stepped on something because I was electrocuted.  I was being electrocuted and I couldn’t move and I thought:  “I’m overpowered and I’m going to die, finally!”  And I was happy.  Then I woke up.

I wasn’t dead.  I never seem to die.  Why does death always elude me?

Does my life have something to do with you, cloaked man?  I don’t think you can help me.  I doubt I can help you.  I’m not sure anymore.  I don’t trust anything.  I feel paralyzed.  I should make a move but all I want to do is make a no-move.  Just sit here and wait.  For someone to come.

But no one will come.  I even disconnected the phone.  I don’t want to hear it ring.  I’m not going to answer anyway.  I’m tired of these fake connections.  I need the real thing.  When I feel like this I don’t want to talk to anyone.  I couldn’t talk anyway.  My throat is numb.  My voice has been disactivated.  I’m not even sure I have a breath.

I am lost because the meaning of things was removed today.  Does this ever happen to you?  Nothing has meaning.  Maybe I’m dissociating again.  Or derealizating.  The environment, the thoughts and the feelings seem unreal.  Where’s my reality?

Maybe I’m just lonely.  If someone would knock on my door, it would surely bring me back to reality.  I need to be touched.  Maybe shaken.  Maybe slapped in the face or kicked in the stomach.

“What you need is a big strong hand to lift you to your higher ground.”

Now I’m channeling Madonna.

Thickheaded Control-Freak

A wrongdoer manipulated my life, like an abuser experimenting with a youngster.  He turned me into a wild animal.  I’m the product of someone’s playful mischief.  Aren’t we all?

My body is a defective vessel — a vehicle which will expire.  Something or hopefully someone will come out of it alive.  A different dummy shall step out of it and face a new reality.

But right now, what am I to do?  Be gloomy?  How can I not be.  I’m this weird creature, controlled by even weirder ones.  There is no way out.  Or is there?  I must wait for the metamorphosis to occur.  I wish the process would accelerate.  Is suicide the answer?

Is killing my body unnatural?  So many do it.  Has it become the norm yet?  We all do it gradually.  Life does it naturally.  I can make myself sick physically.  It’s easy.  But I stubbornly keep my body healthy.  Why?  Maybe because it hurts when I don’t.

But now my soul hurts.  Is it better to have a hurting spirit?  Having to drag this body along is painful.  And when it dies, what kind of body will I be given?  Who will decide?  Maybe I will be able to choose.  My angel said he could shapeshift.  Wow!

I can’t wait to have a shapeshifting body.

My dominant plays god.  That’s what he does.  My evolution would happen naturally if only he would let it be.  But he wants to play divinity.  Prick.  And I’m stuck under his authority for a while.  Like I have a say in what I let my children do.  But kids grow, and sooner or later we lose our authority over them.  It’s a liberation process.  How long will this go on regarding this Daemon?  Does it depend on me or on him?

I am enduring but not so patient.  Let go of me, bitch!

So I ended up here, in this environment.  But still, he has a hold on me.

Let go already, thickheaded control-freak!

Evil Girlfriend

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I will lie to him
To make him love me
If I seduce him
He will not leave me

I will rub him sweetly
To excite his body
I will control his mind
And make him marry me

Then I will be happy
Because the man I admire
The one my friends desire
Will be mine, he-he!

The passion within him
Will be given to me
I will feel extraordinary
All the time
Until eternity

I Panicked

Bad Romance

When was the last time I panicked?

I think it’s when I imagined myself reconciling with my wife and then the two of us making love.

After I had this thought, there was a pain in my stomach.  I felt my guts twisting.  My intestines turned to mush and I had to run to the bathroom.  This is what happens when I panic.

I don’t quite understand because it was not a bad thought.  Maybe this shows how much our relationship has deteriorated.  Or maybe it shows how afraid I am of getting close to a person I don’t trust.

Is this what survivors of abuse call a trigger?

Just a Man

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Here’s the beginning of a man.  The one I call me.

I arrived on this planet in the form of a human baby.  The body which Mother Earth lent me was male.  I was born a Caucasian male in a large country located in the northern part of North America.

Since my body was male, I was expected to grow up to become a man.  This might sound obvious and simple but it was one of the biggest challenges I had to face in this life.

How do you BECOME a man?  Was I not a young man already?  Why did my father shout at me?  Why did he keep hitting me?  Why did he try so hard to make a man out of me?  Was I not destined to become one automatically?  I did not understand what he was trying to do.  I thought there was something wrong with me.  He gave me the impression that I was failing and that I might turn into a girl if I was not careful.

Does it even make sense?  Let me try to remember…

I’m starting to shake as I think about this.  I feel a pressure inside my chest.  My hands, my arms are trembling as I try to type and concentrate on what I intend to write.

“He gave me the impression that I was failing and that I might turn into a girl if I was not careful.”  This sentence brings back a profound fear that is probably still in me.  I wonder if girls/women can relate to this.  It sounds ridiculous.  A boy cannot transform into a girl if he’s not careful.

It took me years before I began to understand what was going on.  But in the beginning, I was really confused about this male thing.  All I could perceive, with my child’s eyes, was that my father hated me.  I did not know why he hated me.

The memories are coming back now.  He hated it when I cried.  He would kick me and yell at me to stop crying.  But the more he hit me, the more I cried.  I tried to seal my lips by holding my mouth shut so that no sound would escape, but then it would come out of my nose and my eyes until everything went blurry.

Eventually I learned how to hold back my tears, how to muffle my voice and how to stay as far from him as possible.  I don’t even remember him ever hugging me.  I thought he was a man.  I knew that I didn’t want to become like him.  So who or what was I to become?  This is probably when I started to dissociate from mankind.

I knew that I was a man.  I also knew that I was not like the men I knew.  There was not one adult man with whom I could identify.  And I knew that I was not a girl.  So what was I?  An alien man?